An Old Socialist or I Shall Be Waiting
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Carson/Hughes series 2 speculation based on the press pack.
1. Chapter 1

**I haven't done pure Carson/Hughesness for an age. This is a oneshot, she says, knowing she's said that before. I have to admit that I'm not sure if they still had a Season in 1915, but the idea was quite a nice one and I was reluctant to let it go. As most of the Carson/Hughes readers know, Onesimus is writing a wonderful fic about these tow and their strained relationship with London Seasons; I'm not going to pretend that didn't give me some ideas. **

**This is my lapse into series 2 speculation based on that marvellous press pack, so if you're frightened of it, or mild SPOILERS, don't read this.**

**An Old Socialist/I Shall Be Waiting**

The rest of 1914 carried much strain; so much in fact that it had to spill over into 1915. She knew very well that she was fortunate- she slept in a bed every night, not some God forsaken trench- but still, that wasn't always easy to remember when she was harassed out of her mind, rushed off her feet. There was certainly more to be done these days; and for the most part she didn't mind. In principal she approved whole-heartedly. But principal, it seemed had not accounted for certain... factors.

She did not mind the extra work at all: she could see for herself the good it would do, or rather the bad it would undo. It defied common sense to leave such a large house standing empty when it could help the common cause. She only wished- from time to time- that some people had more of that same common sense.

Charles Carson was a dear dear man, she was the first to admit it. It was also true that she could happily box his ears sometimes and not bat so much as an eyelid. But it wasn't really his fault that he was too backward to see that things had to change; he had lived sixty years in a rigid set pattern, she could well see why he might have problems changing with the times. Only, she desperately wished that he would get over them just a little bit, especially when progress was so necessary- vital- for saving human life.

At first she had thought it was just marginal reluctance, that it would ebb away after a while, once he got used to a new way of doing things. But old habits really do die hard. More than once she found herself biting back rather sharp retorts in her more irritable moments, only managing to keep silent by reminding herself how much they might upset him. Because her irritation wasn't so much with him- he had a good heart- but his obstinate mindset.

One day, however, she found she could not help it.

She found him at his desk looking sombre.

"Whatever's the matter?" she asked him, "You haven't had any bad news, have you?" she added hurriedly, her mind springing to young Mr Crawley, and indeed, Thomas.

He sat up a little straighter.

"No, nothing like that," he assured her, "I've just had rather a trying day."

"In what way trying?" she took the seat opposite him at his desk, making it apparent that she was ready to listen.

The time was long since gone when he thought he could dissuade her from trying to help him.

"It's just," he gestured vaguely at the ceiling, "Upstairs."

She waited for him to continue, fairly sure that she might not entirely concur with his views on this particular matter, she thought it would be best not to speak for the moment.

"It's rather unsettling," he told her, "To see the proper order of things upset."

This was the point at which she could have chosen to remain completely silent and just hear him out on the matter, nodding along. She didn't.

"The proper order of things?" she prompted him, feeling a little uneasy.

He regarded her rather placidly.

"Is it right that his Lordship should be ordered around in his own home, forced to make way for complete strangers? There's very little dignity in that."

She paused for a beat before speaking in a very cautious tone.

"I don't know. One could argue, I suppose, that if it helps people- if it helps wounded men- that it might be for the best."

He continued, rather more into his stride than she could care to mention. She got the distinct impression that he had not really taken in her last remark.

"And then there's Mrs Crawley," he told her, looking quite visibly distressed now, "Usurping her Ladyship's authority in her own house!"

"She does seem to have more experience in these matters-..." Elsie began.

This did more to get his attention.

"So you think she's in the right, do you?" he wanted to know, looking rather cross with her now, "To abuse her Ladyship's hospitality-..."

"I'm sure she acts with the best of intentions," she retorted, months of unvoiced opinions seeming to rest ready in her throat now, "I would remind you, Mr Carson, that there are bigger things at stake here than the squabbles of her Ladyship, or even the smooth running of a house!"

Her temper was rattled now; that was probably what made her add, in a low mutinous voice she saved for special occasions:

"I don't know if you're not just sulking because wounded men tend not to care too much about the quality of the silver they're allowed into the presence of."

It was a poor stab, petty in the extreme, unnecessarily harsh, and not really worth the time it took her to say the words; but she was suddenly just so cross! She had completely forgotten that she had begun this discussion with the intention of comforting him; he had made her forget, the ridiculous man! That day she left his pantry rather fuming. She passed Anna in the corridor; seeing the housekeeper's face, the maid got out of the way pretty quickly.

But that was the very funny thing about them. It seemed that the more he irritated her, the more he made her cross, the more friendly they were when they weren't disagreeing over something. This was partly, she surmised, purely because of his nature: he was very bad at living with the feeling that someone was more cross with him than he was with them. In all her time as housekeeper, whenever they had a small disagreement he was always very gracious in accepting his portion of blame, however much he tried not to show it- for this foible of his rather irritated him- and apologising. He considered it good manners. The vase of flowers she found on her desk attested to the fact.

And so it continued, though they were never so blunt with each other after that day, there continued to be something of a discrepancy between their views. They were both stubborn old mules, though they could piece themselves back together after an argument, they were each as unlikely as the other to change their convictions in the wake of them. But in the moments when household business wasn't being discussed they were... they were closer. When the rift between them was being ignored, they were all the more thankful, at least she was, and that carried through to their manners with each other.

When they met of an evening they sat beside each other on the settee instead of separate armchairs. They told themselves that it was because it afforded them a little more warmth in the winter months, but when Spring came they were reluctant to shift back to the old way. One day she was up a ladder sorting some books out on one of the high shelves.

"You shouldn't be up there!" he told her, "Get down at once before you break your neck!"

"I am perfectly capable," she informed him.

"I'd still rather that William-..."

"Broke his neck instead of me?" she asked, "Thank you, Charles, but I'm finished anyway."

He took her hand- he did not offer, he just took hold of it- and helped her down the last few rungs.

Little things; he was somehow far less shy of contact with her than he had been before. She was sure he hadn't found her in some way repulsive before; it was more as if he felt as if he were taking a liberty if he touched her for too long. He leant against her comfortably now, and she could have sworn that once or twice their hands innocuously brushed as they walked down the corridor together.

But then, much to her horror, mild amusement and frustration, the time arrived for the London Season much as it had done every year before that.

"Are they still having one?" she asked, appalled when he told her he would be attending as usual, "There's nothing like a war to unbalance numbers at a party. Or is the Kaiser calling it all off for a few months?"

"It does seem to be something of a token gesture," he conceded, "To keep moral up. I expect there will be more Dowagers than either débutantes or bachelors there."

"Will you be gone as long as usual?" she asked, wondering if there might at least be relief in that respect.

But he shook his head.

"Lady Sybil's very keen to stay in London. There are many people she wants to see; many causes she'd like to help." 

Elsie nodded; she could at least understand that. Even if it meant that she would be deprived of certain advantages.

However, as the few weeks that acted as a buffer between them and the season dwindled rather too eagerly away she felt more and more uneasy. A looming dread was pitting her stomach. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate on the here and now for it. She willed herself to get a grip and carry on, but there too she met with reluctance. It wasn't like Charles was going away to fight! Heavens, it was unlikely that during the course of the Season he would meet with any mortal peril. But, then again, Lady Violet was going this year.

Much much too soon for her liking, his last night at Downton arrived. They sat in her sitting room, long after the business of the house had been concluded- side by side with empty coco mugs. She hoped he might be as reluctant to leave as she would be to send him on his way. She chanced a glance at his face. He looked rather lost in thought, melancholy.

She did something that she wasn't sure she knew if she dared to until it was too late. She reached out and touched his hand for no discernible reason than to do just that. He sighed but did not attempt to pull away.

"You look very tired," she told him, "You don't want to go away, do you?" she ventured.

"Not really, no. I had much rather stay here."

She had much rather he stayed.

"Try to look on the bright side," she told him, "No more troublesome housekeeper to disagree with your every move."

He smiled faintly at her attempt to cheer him up but she got the feeling that she hadn't been nearly successful. She tried a different tack.

"Though," she hoped he did not here the falter in her voice, "I must say, I might miss squabbling with you a little."

She was still holding his hand. He looked at her.

"Might you?" he asked.

She might, especially if he looked at her like that. She withdrew her hand quickly, looking back down at her mug. He took that for affirmative.

"I shall miss your company," he told her, "It's nice. Sometimes it feels as if you're on my side even when we're squabbling."

"That's a ridiculous thing to say," she pointed out.

"Yes," he agreed.

They were silent, her looking back down at her mug. It was hard, though, to keep that up; she could feel his eyes on her. When she did return his gaze, she found he wore a look that she'd never seen on him before.

"Charles-..."

And then he kissed her. He kissed her swiftly but gently, with a more than a hint of remaining inhibition, at least at first. She was quite considerably breathless when they broke apart.

At she could not help but laugh, though something inside her was aching at the loss of his mouth from hers.

"We probably picked the wrong night to do that," she pointed out when he gave her a questioning look, "We won't see each other for two months, at least."

He let out a ragged humourless laugh.

"I suppose so," he conceded. His voice was deeper when he was breathless.

Completely contradicting what she had just said, she all but slung her arm around his neck and kissed him again, more vigorously still. When they broke apart this time she felt the reluctance to let him go even more pressingly.

"Charles, lie down," she told him.

"What?" he eyed her warily, "If you thought kissing was a bad idea, I don't think..."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Goodness, you're keen," she told him, "Lie down. I'm not going to lie down with you, I promise."

Having confused him, she motioned for him to turn around and lie back. The settee was too small for him to lie flat out without nudging her. She wanted him to nudge her- as it were-; she guided him to lie with his head in her lap. Though she could tell that he thought at first this might be a liberty, she placed her hands softly on his face; soothing the skin there, kissing his forehead.

"I'll be waiting, you know," she assured him, "When you get back. Don't worry, I'm not about to change my mind."

She was aware that so far she hadn't indicated that her mind was made up in any way. But now, she supposed, she had. Her hand lingered on his chin. He took it in his, brought it softly to his mouth and kissed her palm. She closed her eyes as he held it there. The feeling of his head in her lap was a heavy but comforting presence. There was nothing remotely suggestive about it, it was simply a way of telling him that she would allow him intimacy and that he was free to take it. For thoroughly selfish reasons this time she was pleased at this proof that change could be wrought in him.

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	2. Chapter 2

**I sense this may be going somewhere, though I know not whither. There is another chapter of _The Merry Wives _in the works, but it's a bit sloppy and jumpy and doesn't feel funny at all, so I did some more of this instead. **

Good things come to those who wait. Yes, she acknowledged- remembering the words her mother had repeated to her over and over again through her earliest years- and sometimes they just turn up out of the blue without having to waste the time. But the chances of the Season being completely cancelled, as seen as they were going through the ridiculous charade of having one in the first place, she had to admit were almost non-existent. Waiting it was, then. That kiss had been simultaneously one of the best and worst ideas they'd ever had.

She hadn't forgotten that he was the silly, silly obstinate man living somewhere in the last century. He was still that; only now it felt as if he was something else as well, more even than the dear dear friend she'd known for all these years. She had suddenly found herself ardently attracted to him. She wished that he hadn't gone away the very day after he'd lain there with his head nestled in her lap; she had never felt more at ease with physical contact as she had then. It was a bad idea to sit in the same position now, without him there. They needed to re-establish things between themselves, the lines had been blurred dramatically and there hadn't been time to clarify them again before he'd gone.

And then- wonder of wonders!- he came back a day early. She hoped the raw delight didn't show too obviously when Anna peered around her sitting room door and told her "Mr Carson's back", but she suspected it had. For a second, before she remembered quite where she was, she felt the happiness flash clearly through her face. She left her desk immediately she was sure that her legs would support her properly, and followed Anna out and down the corridor.

She found him by the back door, an island in a sea of cases- only one of which was his own. He had obviously brought some of the family's things back with him to get a head-start on the move.

"How on earth did you manage to get from the station with all of those?" she wanted to know, deciding it was best- with other people present- if she went for the most impersonal topic to hand. It was better at any rate than what she'd have said if she had the choice; something along the lines of: "My sitting room. Now."

It appeared that he was in something of a bad mood.

"Very badly," he replied grumpily, "It took be an age to find anyone who would let me telephone for the motor. The old standards have gone completely to pot."

Well, she thought, there would be a reason for that. But she did not say anything, it was not worth getting cross over herself; especially when he was already upset.

"Come here," she told him, taking the handle of one of the cases, "Let me help you." 

"No, leave it," he told her, "One of the footmen will see to it."

He had apparently completely forgotten that they only had one single footman now. She wondered how she could remind him of that fact without implying that their own standards were also declining.

"William's got enough to do," she told him, "I'll manage."

"Put it down," he told her, now sounding irritable, "You'll put your back out of joint; they're to heavy for-..."

For what, she wanted to say, For a woman? He had stopped very abruptly, clearly sensing danger, confirming her suspicion. Wordlessly, she put down the handle of the suitcase and headed towards the kitchen, suddenly in a thoroughly bad mood herself. It was far from the glowing reunion she had allowed herself to picture. Perhaps she had been foolish to do so.

…**...**

She wandered around for the next few days, wondering if she'd managed somehow to get the wrong end of the stick. She considered once or twice that she might have dreamt the entire encounter up. But no, she could remember it far too clearly for it to have been a dream. Here they were for the first time in over two months in the same place, acting as if it hadn't. They met up in the evenings as usual but that was it. They sat in the same room and then departed. She waited, waited almost tremulously for him to say something. But nothing came, and finally, she found herself taking the matter into her own hands.

"Charles," she began uneasily, sensing that they had quite exhausted the matters of household business that might want attending to, "While you were away did you think at all about what happened the night before you went? What happened between us?" she clarified, as if it might be unclear what she was talking about.

He was back in the armchair as opposed to beside her. It was harder that way, for her at least.

"I did think," he replied at last, "I thought rather a lot, to honest with you."

"I see. And did you reach any conclusions?"

He did not speak. But the look on his face spoke volumes. She bit her lip, hoping she wasn't getting things the wrong way round. He seemed to be having great difficulty finding words, or which order to put them in. Typical, really. After the uneasiness of the past few days, even this was a wonderful change.

"Why didn't you say?" she asked him, rather incredulously.

"I was waiting for you," he looked moderately uncomfortable, "I realise I made something of a hash of things when I got back on Wednesday. I was waiting to know that I was forgiven."

"I was waiting for you," she told him, feeling foolish.

He smiled a little.

"You said you would be. I haven't forgotten, you know."

"Charles. Get over here."

He got up, a smile- perhaps of relief- spreading across his features and sat down beside her with an air of gratitude. She leant in towards him, inviting him to put an arm around her shoulders. He did so and held her tightly for a while. That made her feel much better.

"Elsie?"

"Yes?"

"Might I... might I kiss you again?"

She raised her head from his chest.

"What on earth would make you think I might refuse you?"

He smiled softly down at her.

"I only wanted to make sure you hadn't changed your mind."

"Silly man." Sitting up, she kissed him on the mouth. Good things come to those who wait, Elsie. She could feel herself smiling against his mouth.

It was nice to nestle her head under his chin, resting on his neck and chest as she sat almost in his lap this time. His arms wrapped snugly around her.

"I'm sorry I've been so foul during the past few days," he told her, "I'm just... trying to find my feet, I suppose. And having a bit of difficulty. It's a poor excuse."

One of her hands left his chest and smoothed across his cleanly shaven face, silencing him.

"You don't need an excuse for me, Charles. I understand."

"Do you?" he asked, not testily but as if the notion would be a great relief to him.

"Well, I understand most of the time," she clarified, "And when I don't, I find I can forgive you. Especially when we're like this."

She was quiet for a moment.

"Charles, do you think you'd like to lie down? Like... like before? I've rather missed it," she added, blushing furiously at the confession.

He complied; lying on his back, his eyes open; smiling at her sleepily. Her hand played with his hair, smoothing over is skin. Caressing him, even, though she hardly dared admit it to herself. She wondered how something she'd done twice in her entire life- sitting with this wonderful, obstinate man on her legs- could feel so much like coming home.

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	3. Chapter 3

She did not shout at Charles Carson; she _never _shouted at him. Normally, she would choose to shout at any member of staff first and have very few qualms about it; heavens, she would even shout at his Lordship before she shouted at him! _That _was how cross he had made her.

It hadn't even been their argument in the first place, that was the silly thing. The Dowager Countess, not unusually, Elsie reflected, had been on the rampage.

"Really," he remarked to her as they descended the stairs back to the servants' quarters, both feeling rather as if they had been fortunate enough to pass through a storm unscathed, "The situation was quite impossible, anyone could have seen that."

"Yes," she agreed, "It rather was."

"But, then again, some people," he continued in a rather pained tone, "Will insist on rather over-staying their welcome, as it were. Over-stepping the mark."

That was exactly what she had been thinking. But she highly doubted that Charles would say that about the Dowager Countess. Really, it sounded more like...

"Charles, do you think that Isobel Crawley's in the wrong?" she asked him, realising her initial mistake. She ought to have known but at the same time she still did not want to believe that he would support that old termagant against Mrs Crawley- who was only trying to use what skills she had to do some good. That, she reflected, was all any of them could do.

"Don't you?" he asked, "This isn't her house by any stretch of the imagination; and here she is trying to run the place for her Ladyship! Without asking permission first, I might add."

"Hardly!" That was a gross exaggeration if ever she'd heard one.

Then he looked down- more than just physically, she felt- at her in such a way as tempted her to stamp her foot and storm off, fuming. But she managed to keep calm as he continued.

"At any rate, you can hardly be surprised that the Dowager Countess felt she had to put her foot down."

"I'm not!" she told him bluntly, "Lady Violet feels the need to stick her foot in every which way, whether or not she knows what she's doing!" She knew she was lucky then that he hadn't given her a good telling off- as any other servant would have gotten- so she seemed to feel as she might as well chance her arm a bit more. Really, she was getting so cross by this point that she didn't really care what he said to her in reply, "I can't believe that you always stick up for her; why is that?" she rounded on him.

" Because I am sure she can only act as her conscience dictates!"

"And I am sure that Mrs Crawley only acts as hers does! And I must say that I know which direction my conscience would lean in," she added for good measure.

"Mrs Crawley's conscience has no claim to the organisation of this house," he told her smartly, as if it ought to close the matter.

That was when she really lost her patience with him. She didn't even stop to think that William or Anna or anyone might be just around the corner; before the words had even properly formed in her mind, she had shouted at him;

"And for that matter, neither to either of ours!"

They stood there for a moment, half-staring, half-glaring at each other; both unconscionably angry not with the other person but with their actions. She could not quite believe that she had actually shouted at him, but if she had upset him- hurt him, as opposed to just making him cross- he wasn't showing it. Her temper seemed to be rising out of her ears. It was her who stormed off first.

…**...**

It was hard, undeniably trying, to find herself so attracted to a man that she kept disagreeing with- well, bearing that last encounter in mind, it might not be too strong a word to call it fighting. Of course, there was the added inconvenience of having to go and cool down quite considerably whenever they stopped. But the part that she found the worst was that it wasn't just picky irritations that were causing them to fall out; it was a genuine deep-seated difference in quite fundamental opinions. There was no use asking either of them to back down; equally convinced that they were each right. Two stubborn mules. Old warhorses.

But fortunately, they seemed to be developing something of a system. When the evening arrived, they simply wouldn't speak of anything that had transpired during the course of the day, unless it was a thoroughly neutral subject. They would sit together holding hands, leaning against each other, talking about little things, about the leaves falling off the trees- hoping that no double meanings would be read into. They would be there as a comfort to each other, to take away the strain from the day; trying not to acknowledge that they themselves probably played a significant part in that strain. And, to Elsie at least, it was worth that extra strain if it meant she could have this. She found she became almost as used to curling up on the settee in his pantry as she was on her own- not that she'd ever had any great occasion to curl up there before.

It was odd, she thought, most couples fall out towards the end of a relationship, not the other way around. Because that was where they were hurtling towards, she realised one evening, if indeed they weren't there already. Considerably more than a working relationship. And the idea alone, without any of the trivialities, couldn't have pleased her more.

But how would she bring about the subject she wondered, one evening, as he lay there with his head on her legs- which had become something of a habit- reading a book. How to go about telling him that to her this was becoming more than just looking for comfort. Had it ever just been that?-she wondered. She was sure that he wouldn't kiss her at all if she didn't mean something to him- never mind kissing her as he did. But still she couldn't be sure that he might feel for her as she did for him. Why avoid the label- was this love? Was it love that was keeping them together like this even though logically they should be falling further and further apart? Or merely physical attraction? She had to admit that there was quite a lot of that too.

"Elsie? What's the matter?"

He was reading a book, or at least pretending to be, how did he know that there was something the matter? She looked down at him questioningly. For some reason, he seemed moderately flustered.

"Your legs are tensed," he informed her hesitantly.

Heavens, she hadn't really considered- ridiculous as it sounded- that he could feel her as well. The warm, heavy weight of his head on her legs now seemed so much less passive than it had. For the first time, she realised why he might have considered this action a liberty on his part. The intimacy of it seemed to have tripled.

"What's wrong?" he repeated.

"Nothing."

It was useless, she could feel an undeniable warmth at her centre now- partly embarrassment, partly, she conceded, arousal. Which he could feel, no doubt. Serve her right, really. Suddenly, this didn't feel innocuous at all. He was still watching her.

"Charles, kiss me. Please." 

Thankfully, he sat up; turning around, taking her flushed face into his hand with concern and kissing her tenderly. She wished he wouldn't look into her eyes like that, she felt so vulnerable, as if he could see right through her. Slumping against his chest, she let him hold her, wondering how on earth she could say what she felt.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Just a quick chapter, I wanted to post _something _at least, because I haven't abandoned you all, although it may seem that way.**

Rules had been a veritable constant for the best part of Elsie's working life; first having to abide by them and then gradually coming to enforce them, until it seemed as if there was no one who would dare to challenge her if she actually did break them herself. But she had always liked them, in her own way: if they were practically chosen they were fundamental to keeping order, to avoiding atmospheres. And she had always had a bit of the stickler in her nature. And-inconveniently- it refused to subside. Even when she wanted to break a rule for herself.

It was Ethel, cursed girl, who caused her to reflect in this way about her own relationship with rules; with enforcing and breaking. Elsie made rather a fearsome dragon when she wanted to; she had no problem chasing most suitors away from the housemaids in her care. But never before- if she discounted Anna and Mr Bates, and for some reason she was inclined to- had she had so much trouble chasing the girl away from the suitor. Suitors, she corrected herself, that girl seemed to flirt with most of the men who passed through the house that she could get anywhere near.

But it wasn't just the girl's sheer persistence that unnerved her. It was another branch of her insolence, a more subtle one, but infinitely more discomforting for Elsie. It was the look in her eye as Elsie reprimanded her; a look that spelled out the housemaid's clear conviction that the housekeeper was nothing more than a miserable old hypocrite, that she herself would behave similarly around men if she thought she had half a chance. For a start, Elsie was unnerved by the girl's seeming excessive nerve: as a housemaid she herself would never have left any such opinions she had of the housekeeper so obviously unguarded. And there was something else that disturbed her more deeply still: that if they amended the criteria to one man, Ethel was absolutely right, Elsie would relish the chance to be young and beautiful again so that she might make it as hard for him to resist her as it was for her to resist him.

And the thing was that at the moment she seemed to be doing very badly in terms of resisting Charles. He would come to her sitting room, or she would go to his, and it was now inevitable that they would kiss, seldom bothering with great restraint now. They would lie side by side on whichever settee, watching each other- always nearly exhausted, but never really inclined to sleep- and kiss, their hands roaming with some semblance of caution. She felt intoxicated by him sometimes, driven almost to the verge of a gentle insanity, so madly, silently in love.

But she could only hold out for so long like this. It was all very well to take casual comfort, pleasure, from his lips and hands and have it mean very much to her. But she couldn't continue much longer, not without knowing how he felt.

And one day, she asked him.

"Charles," she whispered, breaking slightly away from their kiss, barely able to think straight, her mind focussing solely on articulating herself with no consideration of what she was articulating, "Do you love me?"

She heard his breath catch and instantly regretted speaking in the first place. Then a few seconds of the heaviest pause she'd ever known rested around them, before he resumed kissing her, very differently. He kissed her with a passion and lack of restraint that she had never hitherto known him to show.

She rallied the last of her conscious thought and placed a hand on his chest- now pressed against her own- pushing him gently away from her; trying hard to find something, anything, in his eyes that might give her a hint.

"Charles. I have to know."

The arousal from such a kiss and the want to resume it did not make waiting for him to speak any easier. Their closeness, the way they were wrapped around each other, only made it all the more difficult. His hands rested on her flushed face, cupping it gently.

And in the split second before he answered she knew what he was going to say.

"Yes, Elsie. I do."

She felt the sigh- moan, almost- of relief escape her lips, heard it, before she had even processed it. They were kissing again, passionately; like before and not like before.

His hands tangled up in her hair, making it fall loose. She allowed herself to breathe for a moment; her hands roaming his back and her face resting against his, feeling him plant kisses by her ear.

**There will probably be a part two to this chapter once I get geared up to it. Please excuse my pathetic-ness of late and review if you have the time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 2. Short, but possibly the most concentrated smut I have ever written. M. Less than 500 words and almost every one of them smutty. **

It felt like they were the only two people in the world, she could concentrate on nothing but him, the feeling of his bare skin against hers, even as he held her gently in his sleep. Her brain had been somehow numbed down, she could not think properly; perhaps it was a very happy form of exhaustion. The gentle ebb and flow of his breathing was coaxing her softly towards a very deep sleep, but she resisted for a little while longer, quietly revelling in these moments, in the vividly recent, wonderful memories.

It could, just about, be said that she had recently discovered entirely new- yet echoing-ly similar- associations of having his head in her lap: his hand at her hip, holding her steady, as he drove her to the most acceptable madness she had ever known, that she had never known before now. The fresh knowledge that he loved her back was almost enough to over-whelm her entirely in itself, never mind this demonstration of it.

She was aware- as she recovered herself slowly- that he had moved back up her body, supporting himself over her, watching her face intently. There was nothing she could say to him as he moved carefully to lie back down beside her, still watching as if afraid he would loose sight of her if his gaze broke, taking her still trembling form into his arms and holding her tightly. She found her voice again, albeit shakily.

"Don't you want to-...?"

"Shh," he told her , "There's time yet."

She fell silent apart from her ragged breath, relishing quietly in the closeness between them, never wanting it to end, but at the same time wanting more of what had led to it. These two urges in her conflicted lazily for a while, until she kissed him again- softly at first- and the latter decidedly won.

She wrapped her arms back around his neck, deepening the kiss, pushing closer, showing him she was ready. He surprised her by rolling to lie under her, but found she could find this arrangement quite acceptable, opening her legs to straddle him. For a moment she was still: her right hand was entwined with his left, she closed her eyes, revelling in the feeling of his hips brushing the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs. Surely it was wrong, to feel as happy as this in such a way; but then, how had they managed to get here at all? Nothing short of a miracle could have brought them past their differences, their squabbles, to find them here, like this.

She felt his hand reach up and brush against her face. Nuzzling her mouth into it, kissing it, she opened her eyes to find him watching her. He didn't need to tell her that he loved her, in that moment she understood implicitly. And then she simply drew him to her and made love to him.

**Please review if you have the time. **


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